One Degree of Separation Page 2

  “To the research study that proves it, I know.” She shot Marian a suspicious look as she peered into her nearly empty cocktail glass.

  Marian gave Amy her full attention. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening. Is this new woman going to upset the entire dating pool?”

  “Well, I noticed her and I generally don’t,” Amy admitted.

  “Better not,” Hemma warned.

  “Nobody compares to you, my love.” Amy’s hand slipped downward to cup Hemma’s hip. “Let’s go get our table, because I’m starved.”

  With a throaty laugh Hemma pressed her hip into Amy’s hand.

  Her hand lovingly covered Amy’s. “I know.” Marian blushed furiously. Ellie gave her a startled look.

  Anything was better than the truth, Marian thought desperately.

  “Okay, I swiped some of your drink.”

  Ellie’s indignation was sufficient to divert to safe topics, even if it was a recitation of the many burdens Ellie suffered being Marian’s best friend. Marian let the various accustomed criticisms wash over her. Ellie had been her friend too long for it to have any sting, even when PMS made Marian certain the world could read her mind and every last secret. When dessert finally arrived, she lost herself in the chocolate cake. It was, after all, cheaper than therapy.

  Tuesday evening, June 3:

  Bleeding, no. Cat vomit, yes. The vet says Trombone’s got nerves. I’d like to puke on everyone who gives me nerves.

  When I am reincarnated I want to come back as a lesbian’s cat.

  Had Amani’s with Ellie who is dead set to land a new dyke in town.

  HER looked great tonight. Dinner Thursday. I-CARE on Saturday.

  Jumping up and down has not made my period start. Tomorrow I am going to wear my new white shorts and not have a tampon on hand. It could work.

  “So what’s the deal, Trombone?” Marian scraped the last of the cat upchuck out of the heel of her favorite clogs. “Is it something I said?”

  The tip of Trombone’s tail moved just enough to agree.

  “You smell Amani’s on me, and I didn’t bring you any, and then I ignored you to write in my journal, is that it? Hill, breathe someplace else.” Marian pushed Professor Hill’s snout the other direction.

  “Between your breath and Trombone’s puke, it’s aromatic enough in here.”

  Hill good-naturedly rolled over, covering the remainder of the small kitchen floor with his body and long collie tail.

  “You’re jealous of Hill’s tail, aren’t you, Trombone?” Sighing, Marian finished mucking out her shoe and poured her last glass of water for the day. She ought to have exercised.

  Looking out the kitchen window into the backyard, she saw the sweep of headlights as Hemma and Amy pulled into the alley access behind their house.

  “Make you a deal, body. You start bleeding and I’ll start exercis-ing.” She snapped off the kitchen light on her way through to the tiny dining room she rarely used. Hill scurried out to the screened porch while Marian checked that the outer door was locked.

  Satisfied there were no intruders, Hill scampered past her knees to chase Trombone upstairs.

  “Hill, you’re just going to end up with a scratched nose!” Hill had yet to learn the politics of living with a cat. Marian locked the front door behind her and successfully avoided confronting the clutter in the living room by turning out the light. She’d clean next year, maybe.

  Trombone, perched on the highest shelf of the tall bookcase at the top of the stairs, watched Marian thump her way up and ignored Hill’s antic attempts to reach her. “You brought that creature into my house,” the Russian Blue seemed to say, her tail wrapped tightly around her.

  Marian paused as she did every night to touch her mother’s quilt, which hung on the high wall of the stairwell. “When you pay the mortgage, my dear Trombone, you can decide who lives here. Hill won’t be a puppy forever. He’s only two. Another couple of years.” Trombone looked at the wall.

  “Someday, Hill, you’re going to bring that bookcase down on your head. Sit! Stay!” Marian held her finger inches from Hill’s nose until he settled. “Oh, good boy! Good boy!” Trombone’s sigh was audible.

  Marian paused a moment to regard the empty shelves. Their barren state was something she’d ignored successfully for some time.

  Well, it would be a place to put her textbooks. It felt weird to think of herself as a student again.

  She brushed her teeth to the accompaniment of Hill’s happy, going-to-bed panting. She knew that when she was nearly asleep Trombone would join them, taking, as usual, the center of the bed. It was genetically impossible for a cat to sleep anywhere else, especially if other beings wanted the bed as well.

  Ordinary pajamas, she told herself. Some boxer shorts and a cotton tank—that’s all that was called for on a warm summer night.

  It wasn’t as if there was anyone to impress. No one had seen her in pajamas since Robyn, and Robyn hadn’t liked her in pajamas. Robyn had preferred her—no, stop right there, she scolded herself. Robyn was a lying, cheating bitch of a destructive thief.

  Cotton boxers and an equally soft tank was what the night called for, and that was all. Inner Slut pouted and whispered outrageous fantasies. I’m in control here, Marian thought weakly. I won’t give in.

  But her hand passed over the comfortable cotton in the drawer, and reached instead for the sensuous silk of the nightshirt and boxer set that had never been designed for sleep.

  She smoothed the thin black silk over her hips and couldn’t quite look at herself in the mirror as she washed her face. She ignored the tingle down her spine that the cool fabric always triggered. With the lights out, moonlight spilled dimly through the open blinds of the spare room.

  Close the blinds, she told herself. Close them, go to your room and get over it.

  She sat down in the chair at the window. Count to twenty. If it’s still dark in twenty, leave. Get over it.

  The night was warm and heavy. Her body ached to be touched.

  Hormones, she told herself. You were even thinking about Ellie at dinner. It’s just those stupid hormones making you this way.

  She counted to a hundred twice, then soft light blossomed in the bedroom opposite where she sat.

  Amy came to the window and pushed it half closed, then lowered the shade to match. There was a flash of aqua behind her, then the shade pressed against the glass. Two bodies, backlit by the bank of candles on their dresser, merged into one.

  Don’t do this, Marian told herself, even as she peered through the night. This is pathetic.

  The aqua shirt floated to the floor. Two bare midriffs were visible as slacks were unzipped. It was easy to tell the slightly darker tone of Hemma’s Middle Eastern skin from Amy’s Irish paleness. Amy’s hands on Hemma’s waist.

  Not Marian, but Amy lowering Hemma to the bed. Amy, stroking Hemma’s back. Amy easing Hemma’s bra from her shoulders. It was Amy’s fingertips gently rousing Hemma’s nipples to hard points of dusty rose and Amy’s tongue teasing them further.

  Amy and Hemma had a rhythm, a natural pace that spoke of ease and long practice, but it was never the same way twice. Some nights they were hurried, others languid. It could take minutes, or it could take hours.

  Hemma had her hands in Amy’s hair, pushing her down toward her hips. Amy resisted for a moment, said something. Hemma responded by opening her legs farther and tipping her hips up. Then it was Amy tasting Hemma. Marian swallowed hard and ached to feel the hot silk of Hemma’s desire on her tongue. Hemma was frantic tonight, arching against Amy, exposing every inch of herself to Amy’s seeking mouth.

  Pathetic. Marian dashed away tears. How much of her life had she wasted wanting what she couldn’t have?

  Across the distance separating the two houses Marian could hear Hemma’s moan. She had to close her eyes as she imagined that sound being one she had wrought. Her hands swept to her breasts, teasing her nipples through the thin fabric. Hormones ... God, she wanted to be touched to
night. She imagined Hemma caressing her, whispering in her ear whatever magic she whispered to Amy, whatever promises that made Amy gasp for breath.

  Hemma’s sharp, low cry made her look again. Hemma wrapped her legs around Amy’s hips, rising to meet her. Her face swam into Marian’s feverish view. Beautiful with abandon, Hemma bit her lower lip, then her mouth curved with pleasure. Amy kissed her and they thrust together, inching their way across the bed. Amy was whispering in Hemma’s ear and Hemma’s moans sharpened to short cries of climax.

  Marian gripped the sill, dizzied. She hated this feeling, and loved it. She told herself she wouldn’t watch ever again but always did.

  Hemma’s head hung off the bed, showing the elegant line of her throat, her lush breasts, her spread legs where Amy knelt. Bending over her, Amy said something low and urgent, then Hemma’s rising wail flowed across the night, wrapping itself into the private places of Marian’s heart.

  Loving HER. Wanting HER. Days, weeks, years of wishing for something she would never have. Before Robyn, during Robyn, after Robyn, the ache never eased. Robyn had left two years ago after destroying everything that had mattered—except for Marian’s heart.

  Hemma had always been and would always be the one who possessed it, whether she knew it or not.

  She closed her eyes and pictured the perfect beach, the perfect sunset, the perfect woman by her side. One who could hold her, one who liked to be held. One who told her what was good about her more often than what was bad. She hungered for the velvet fullness of Hemma’s lips against her skin.

  Hemma’s cries faded under Amy’s deeper groans. Amy wouldn’t stop until Hemma was taken care of. Wonderful Amy, tall, slender, intellectual, witty, all things that Marian envied. Amy gave Hemma everything she needed. Amy was a good lover, a good friend, and Hemma looked at Amy with stars in her eyes that never wavered.

  Amy cried out as Hemma’s nails raked over her back, then they were rolling over and Hemma, her face glowing with desire, pressed her hand between Amy’s legs and watched her lover’s every nuance of expression. She said something fiercely and Amy’s loud, fervent,

  “Yes, baby, yes,” was what Marian longed to say.

  You’re such a loser, she told herself. Go get laid, have a fling. She should make up a T-shirt for the I-CARE breakfast that screamed,

  “Forget the U-Haul, Just Fuck Me!”

  She wiped away a tear. She’d feel better in a couple of days. She always felt better. She didn’t have needs. She’d have dinner on Thursday and bask in Hemma’s affection and Amy’s friendship. It would be okay. Her hands swept over her breasts again, imagining the Hemma of her fantasies teasing her for hours. It was Hemma’s hands that opened her thighs and touched her. She could hear Hemma’s knowing laugh at what she found, and the low promise that all that heat, all that wet, would not go to waste.

  Hemma’s laughter drew her attention to the window again. Light but sultry, it accompanied the act of tossing a towel on the floor.

  Spreading another on the bed, she pressed Amy down, straddling Amy’s hips. She flowed up and down Amy’s body, so sensual, so sexual, so captivating.

  Marian could not stop watching and imagining, even knowing that it would never be her with Hemma. She should join Ellie in her dyke hunts. Practice whatever voodoo it was that got nearly every woman in town onto that couch of Carrie’s. Move away, start a new life, move on.

  Right. That would fix everything, she thought bitterly. She’d only let Robyn into her life and her bed as a cure for Hemma, and look where that had gotten her. Her unwilling gaze turned from the window to the box in the corner where the Robyn Ruins were sealed.

  Someday she would look inside again and maybe then her desire to commit murder would finally wane.

  Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll think about all of that tomorrow when I can’t hear HER in my head. When I can’t hear Robyn either.

  She knew that tomorrow night she’d look in on Hemma’s life again. The pain of not having Hemma’s body was one she’d learned to bear. She could live without sex, yes, she could. It was harder to see them watch television with teacups on their stomachs, or argue fiercely about something in the newspaper, or read aloud to each other from books. Sex was easy. Robyn proved that. Intimacy, real intimacy, was something Marian had never known.

  She wanted to make cornbread on cold nights and dash through the house naked for ice cream and spoons after sex. To lounge outside on a summer evening with only crickets for entertainment. To share the last piece of pie by passing the tin and a fork back and forth.

  Amy was rolling Hemma across the bed. Hemma shrieked as they slipped off the edge where Marian could no longer see them. Their voices rose together in harmonic laughter.

  2

  “That’s her.”

  Liddy Peel ignored the audible comment and pointed look directed at her. This town was too small, too humid, too hot, too provincial, and she hadn’t even been here a week. Eight more weeks of this baking hell to go.

  She was so fucking tired of being the fresh meat at the coffeehouse market. She’d even heard that description of her whispered from one woman to another. Obviously, none of these cow town lightweights had seen the inside of a women’s studies class. Not that her own foray into women’s studies had turned out so well, but that was beside the fucking point. They were worse than men, she told herself, swear to freakin’ god.

  “Mocha, definitely with caffeine, on ice. With cream.” The barely legal kid behind the counter mumbled an answer. So far they’d gotten it right, and the coffee was admittedly good.

  At home she’d turn around now, check out who was in the place, on the off chance she would know someone. Not that it would have been likely, even in the student union. But she didn’t know anybody here. She didn’t want to know anybody here. The last thing she wanted was to make eye contact with one of the boa constrictors.

  She couldn’t go back to Cal, either. She was a graduate, finally.

  This job had come along at exactly the right moment in her life and she was lucky to have it.

  She waited with her back to the rest of the long, narrow shop and the clusters of tables and groupings of sofas and easy chairs. To be fair, the Java House was as comfortable and collegiate as similar establishments in Berkeley. All it lacked was a plastic drum band outside. The radio was even tuned to the university station. Just like at home, she tried and failed to focus on what must be a vitally serious topic to engender such passion from the panelists. It sounded worth-while, burning oat hulls instead of coal, but it just wasn’t something she could get all worked up about.

  Liddy edged sideways to make room for a shorter woman now ordering, who also wanted an iced mocha. They probably went through ice by the ton in the summer.

  “Did you find what you needed about writing to the Queen of England?”

  The oddity of the question made Liddy glance at the woman next to her, who was actually managing to hold a conversation with the taciturn boy. He was even smiling. Who knew?

  Liddy took her mocha from him and added fake sugar and chocolate sprinkles. Her drink well-doctored she took a breath and turned to face the room. It was only about twenty feet to the door, but the most direct route took her past the boa constrictors. With relief, she detoured instead to the stack of Daily Iowan newspapers. Maybe somebody at the university was doing something remotely interesting this weekend.

  She flipped it open to scan the headlines. Trailer-park residents were suing Coralville. All she knew about Coralville was that the city logo on the water tower was blue. ...f Iowa student was the first Iowan to reach the summit of Mt. Everest. The university was also proudly the home of a one-of-a-kind model lake, useful for numerous experiments.

  One of the boa constrictors called out, “Marian! They’ve got brownies today.”

  “After the cake last night I really couldn’t. Could I?” Liddy wanted to roll her eyes. Lesbians and chocolate—what a cliché.

  There was an abrupt silence and Li
ddy could feel the traded glances behind her back. The brunette with the overprocessed high-lights whispered, “That’s her. You were standing right next to her and you didn’t say anything?”

  The woman named Marian said in a normal tone, “Ellie, I’m quite sure she can hear every word you’re saying.” Liddy stiffened her back and slowly turned around. “I may be new, but I’m not deaf.”

  Marian, at least, was looking her in the eye. “I’m sorry, I know what it’s like. We were all new once.”

  An older woman with wedge-cut gray hair chimed in, “I’m the only native in the bunch.”

  “Oh hush, Terry, even you ended up on Carrie’s holistic love couch,” the brunette muttered. Her sharp brown gaze caught Liddy’s for a moment and her smile grew conspiratorial. “You’ll know Carrie when you see her.”

  Liddy didn’t know whether to give vent to the indignation she felt at having her proclivities presumed, or to laugh, say something meaningless, and escape.

  “It’s okay,” Marian said. “Ellie can’t help herself.” Liddy found a tight smile. “Fortunately, I can.” Marian chortled appreciatively. “Good for you.” She turned to the brunette again. “I have to get back to work, El. See you Friday night if not sooner.”

  Liddy headed for the door as well, not wanting to be drawn into any conversation with Ellie. She wasn’t in the mood for sex. Maybe never again. She didn’t need a girlfriend to be whole, and she didn’t need sex to feel alive, swear to freakin’ god.

  She found herself following Marian down the wide Pedestrian Mall—what a creative name, she thought. The open-air mall was dotted with planters, benches and tables placed under broad, canopied trees. The smell of falafel and tahini sauce was evocative of home, and Liddy nearly got a pita just for comfort. But the coffee was refreshing enough.

  The mall reached a dead end at a multistoried hotel, and, like Marian, she turned left, away from the fountain. She glanced longingly over her shoulder at the children running through the spray.